Sunshine
by Gotcha Nose
Summary: Hermione Granger awakens after death in an unknown bed, in an unknown body and next to an unknown individual. Thrust back to 1979, Hermione attempts to stay under the radar and carefully maintain the life and choices of her host body, all the while battling to change their outcome and bring a little sunshine back to the world.
1. Chapter 1

Hello there!

Thanks for clicking on the story, it means a lot to me. As you may have guessed, I'm a huge Harry Potter fan, and in particular I have a weakness for the Marauders era. As such, I will take any recommendations that you may have. :)

This is the short prologue of Sunshine. The rest of the chapters will be much longer than this. I had considered combining it with the first chapter, but I thought that it ended better on its own. I hope that you enjoy my story, and please feel free to ask me any queries or questions you may have!

**Disclaimer:** In a startling twist of events, I did not write the Harry Potter series. Thus, I own nothing. Sue me for the £3.43 that's in my purse – _it'll cost you more in legal fees._

* * *

**Prologue:** Sunshine

* * *

She saw spangling sunshine. It hopped back and forth, shifting and changing. Afraid to settle; to stagnate. Phosphorescent light in an uneasy quickstep, aimless and spontaneous with an unwillingness to commit.

However, it was not the sunshine that graced her. Its lustrous burn was well worth the warmth that would envelop her as she met its gaze. Her parents told her to never look directly at the sun, but she couldn't resist sometimes taking a peek. The hairs on her arms would stand on end as she stared down the blinding star. She imagined Helios, or Apollo or Ra looking back, their brilliant glare dizzying and empowering her at the same time. Her eyes left with a dappled glow and her body filled with newfound potential. She could take on the sun.

It was more like looking at a cheap lightbulb. Glistering and artificial, a light that ambushed the bundles of nerves resting behind her eyes, aggressing each one with its bleached blaze. She was left with white spots that rehoused themselves in her line of vision, fizzing back and forth in front of her pupils like a cracked can. She tried to concentrate on one place, to focus her eyes, but her head lulled, neck struggling with its weight.

"How did you get into my vault?" The voice was foggy. Muffled with cotton-wool ears and the sound of her own beating heart. "Did the _dirty_ _little_ _goblin_ in the cellar help you?"

Her reply seemed to be in slow motion. She felt as if she were wading through marshland, each syllable a struggle. Her tongue was heavy, teeth clashing together as she spoke, words slurring like a drunk. For the first time in her life, her mouth worked entirely separately to her brain. She couldn't find a semblance of sense within her that wasn't sloshing back and forth like a child in a stream. Her lips were on autopilot, moving aimlessly of their own accord and she had no idea what she'd said but it couldn't have been pleasing.

The stinging chill of a knife bit at her forearm. Raw with cold, but no longer painful. Her mind seemed indifferent to her body, removed and remote. She had surpassed pain and instead was numb and misty. With wide and unclear eyes, she watched with faint concentration as the blade traced her skin, decorating milk white with crude red lesions. Slowly, slowly, letters appeared. Blood oozing from her pale forearm like a particularly indulgent slug, trailing across pallid skin with an almost cautious permeance. The blood mingled with the remnants of grime, shifting from startling scarlet to murky claret.

**MUDBLOOD**

"Lying, filthy…"

She could take on the sun.

With her muddy, dirty, _filthy_ blood. Blood that deserved to spill. Blood that wasn't fit for any purpose but to splatter the ground they walked on; to sink into the soil and fester with the worms and mites that lived there. A curious discrimination.

Her blood could take on the sun.

The blood that muggle parents gave her. Parents that were warm and loving; that tucked her into pale yellow bedcovers each night with an out of key rendition of their song. Despite her being long past the age for lullabies.

'_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…'*_

Her parents that were somewhere in Australia now, where it was hot and sticky, and the sunshine blazed all day long. Two senior dentists under the name of Monica and Wendell Wilkins. A pair that were pleasant and kind, but careful, who would never glance too long at the sky for fear it would blind them. Thoughtful folk with sunny temperaments, ones that had always wanted a child, but who fate had never seen fit to shine a light on.

'_You make me happy, when skies are grey…'_

Her filthy, powerful blood was all she had left of them. That, and a faint echo of a lullaby that told her she was the light in their lives.

Hermione's head drooped. She was wrapped in a pulpy mesh of pressure and temperature. Time and pain seemed transient as her head burnt and throbbed. It was though the soft mass of her jumbled brain was pushing against her skull, pressing against cartilage and bone in one uncontained surge of force, seeking release from its fleshly prison. She tried to groan, but no noise escaped her. Instead, a gurgle of blood, thick and sticky with the phlegm that lined her throat, dribbled down her lips; a parasite's cocktail.

'_You'll never know dear, how much I love you…'_

She couldn't choke. No feeble coughs or gasping breaths. No spluttering, crying eyes and heaving lungs. She was stuck in the sinking mud, slow and heavy. Eyelids clinging to blank and unseeing eyes. Her mouth crippled; cracked lips parted and unmoving. The tang of wet iron soaked each tastebud and a viscous red treacle clung to her tongue, pouring into each slit and cavity it could find, filling her up from the inside as she sat silently. Her limbs were slack, limp and hanging from the trunk of her body like broken branches.

Hermione's eyes fluttered from open to closed, closed to open. Lashes wilting like daisies in the heat. It wouldn't be long now. Lines were blurring, shapes were merging. Each figure a flower in the forest, a mass of colour and indistinction from green to blue to black to purple and red. Cruel eyes muddied from sharp steel to a blur of soft, distorted grey before fading into nothing. Faceless, formless.

Leaving just Hermione and the sunshine.

As she rested against the cold marble of Malfoy manor, bleeding against the tiles, Hermione thought that she heard her parents' tuneless voices singing to her one last time.

'_So please don't take my sunshine away.'_

She smiled.

* * *

*_You Are My Sunshine _is a song that's origins are unknown, but was popularised by Jimmie Davis and Charles Mitchell in 1939.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, my guys! Thank you so much for your favourites, follows and reviews. They're really encouraging and have made me so happy. :D (That's me, smiling at all of you.)

I'm sorry that this has taken while. Due to work and study, it's going to be pretty slow going until mid-August. However, after that, the updates should get a bit more regular. I haven't abandoned it, I promise!

I hope that you enjoy this chapter. If you have any queries or questions, feel free to pop them my way. For now, though, I've got a question for you – **what's your Hogwarts house?** I'm a Gryffindor, but I'm often mistaken for a Hufflepuff.

**Disclaimer:** Oddly, in the month that I've not updated, I have not garnered the rights to Harry Potter.

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**Chapter One:** Ignite

* * *

There was something argent about death. He was neither dark, nor light, but a shining, lucent silver. Some called him cruel, or sadistic; a creature that reaped with merciless bloodlust. However, Hermione wasn't quite sure she agreed with this sentiment. Death, she thought, was clinical. He cared not for mawkish ideas of love and justice. They were ants on a hiker's boot. Instead, he took as life gave: a shark in the open water that fed on those who had already drowned.

In truth, Hermione had never been afraid of dying. Her parents, practical as they were, didn't feed her tall tales of salvation and damnation. They allowed her to draw her own assumptions. When her Grandmother passed, just shy of her ninth birthday, there was no speak of angels or reincarnation or the famed 'better place'. She was simply told that dying was a natural bodily process, often painful and messy, but far more so for those who are left behind.

In recent years, she'd grown comfortable with this prospect: she was a moth, dancing with death's flame. Increasingly, as the villains they faced grew darker and their ventures more perilous, she began to smoulder; eyes flickering, wings blazing, as she spent more and more time with one foot in the grave. Of course, she had taken some necessary precautions – she was her father's daughter. Hermione had purchased muggle life insurance to pay for a basic funeral. She'd drafted a will and written letters to Harry, Ron and a couple of others. Her beloved half-kneazle cat, Crookshanks, was to go to Professor McGonagall, a woman she could trust with his welfare and, importantly, his grooming. He didn't allow just anyone with tenacity and a steady hand to approach him after all. Her collection of books would go to Professor Lupin, a man who would surely appreciate them as much as she did. Finally, the leftover money that she had in her vault, she would give to the Weasley family - the closest thing that she had left to kin.

No, for Hermione, dying was nothing to worry about: merely the decline of human biology. To fear death, she concluded, was to fear life, for we all must die eventually.

It was what came after that, that concerned her. Hermione didn't like not knowing. She solicited knowledge and answers, read books to seek clarity and conclusion on a variety of topics. She wasn't one to work on whims, her risks were calculated and controlled. She knew what she was getting into when she entered a situation and _always_ considered the possible outcomes that could occur. Sometimes, yes, these were tragic. Nonetheless, she'd recognised them; _prepared _for them. However, there was no amount of reading that could prepare for passing on, as nobody that was still around had done it.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Hermione felt her lungs inhale before anything else. It was like breaking the water's surface, a fevered gasp drinking in fulgent sunshine as she warmed from the inside out. The fogginess that consumed her was slowly beginning to clear. Her senses blazing as her prudent mind sobered once more, thinking, feeling and touching. For the first time in months, she felt awake, stimulated. Her limbs were sprawled, and she was floating on a bed of satin and goose-feathers, her bare skin pliant to downy sheets.

The material was rich and delicate, a tender touch that she'd been denied in her time on the run. The blankets they'd had in the camp were starchy and durable; plucked from Mr Weasley's outbuilding. They were designed for warmth and practicality, not for comfort, and left prickling rashes on her exposed skin.

If this was death, Hermione thought, soft silk and warm solace, then this was not so bad.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

She lay there, her eyes closed, and concentrated on what else she could feel around her. Each sensation grew sharper and more distinct as time passed. Beneath her head she felt a plush, silky pillow, the fine material like petals of a pansy clinging to the back of her neck. There was a mattress that sprang like moss, perfectly moulded to the shape of her body. She ran her hands down satin sheets, the fabric almost oil to her fingertips, pushing them outwards and rousing a heady ripple in the material. Hermione continued her ministrations and stretched out her impatient limbs further, relishing the feel of gentle cloth on her skin. It was like waking from a yearlong slumber finally well-rested.

Emboldened by her newfound comfort, Hermione grew intrepid with her search and sought the indulgence she'd forgotten she missed. Craving release, she extended her arms and legs into a near star-like position. She liked taking up space. The tent, though larger than expected with its undetectable extension charms, had stifled them all. It was the atmosphere more than anything, she thought, that had cramped and confined them. They had all been on top of one another. Harry and Ron bickering amongst themselves, often pulling Hermione into the fray. When Ron returned, the tension between the pair had dissipated. It was Hermione that had been angry with him for leaving, but she was too relieved at his return to hold a grudge for long. However, despite their camaraderie, the gravity of the situation still pressed down on them. Expectation immured their mind and contorted their body, suffocating them – Harry in particular.

She savoured the sweet crack of her stiff joints and pushed out further and further, until her limbs were taut and her muscles straining. She kept stretching, challenging herself to pull apart, and reaching to the other side of the bed. It was relief, unquestionably, until her right hand, near insatiable with its explorations, brushed against something warm and hard. She recoiled her hand into a fist and froze.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Hermione peeled open her eyes. Her gaze adjusted to murky twilight and with a glance, confirmed that she wasn't dead. Or if she was, the afterlife looked very similar to a studio flat. She was met with a low shadowy ceiling that probably appeared white in the daylight. Somewhat unremarkable, it was dotted erratically with flush ceiling lamps that were bulky and misshapen, resembling low-hanging fruit from a bush. She was surrounded by dark walls that looked to be painted a dim navy, but really could have been any muted shade. There was a clock on the wall opposite her, ticking balefully, but displaying an indistinct time in the dingy light.

At a glance, Hermione noticed that she was laid in her underwear. They were garments of soft blue cotton that wouldn't have seemed out of place – had they not been all she was wearing. This was an unusual and impractical statement for her to make; a far cry from her usual bundle of fleece pyjamas and blankets. Hermione was always cold, even when she wasn't sleeping in canvas and battling the English elements. However, lying there in her bra and knickers, she felt almost temperate.

Hermione sat up in bed and looked to her right. Despite her state of undress and previously relaxed position, she was alert, muscles tensed, and fists clenched; the instincts of a fighter. However, she needn't have worried. Obscured slightly by the soft sheets and shadowy room, she glanced down next at a body, evidently asleep, and breathing shallowly.

It was a man, she thought, eyes trailing over him, noting the broad set of his toned shoulders. He was lying on his stomach; face concealed by both the sumptuous pillow and the crook of his folded arms which rested beneath his head. Thin blankets had been carelessly draped over him, covering from his waist to the bottom of his thighs. This offered Hermione a glimpse of his bare legs and exposed back, both of which were lithe, a brilliant ivory even in the dim light. This contrasted with the flux of thick dark hair that was knotted in a sluggish bun at the nape of his neck.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Moisture began to pool at her hairline. Where was she? Who was this?

She got to her feet, standing up carefully so not to disturb the sleeping man. She felt sick and warm, like she'd spent too long in the feverish sun. Her stomach swayed as she stood, heaving like the slap of an overwrought tide.

Hermione stumbled a little, pressing her hand against the cool wall to steady herself. She maintained that position for a couple of seconds, attempting to find her feet, before noticing something that caused her stomach to sink further.

Long, vibrantly painted fingernails. The type that with her poor cuticles and habit of nail-biting, she'd never been able to maintain. She looked closer and noticed that her arms were almost completely clear of the marks and blemishes she'd accumulated over the years. Gone was the lump on her middle-right finger that she'd garnered from writing too much. Gone were the nicks and scratches that decorated her hands and wrists – a result of an overzealous Crookshanks. There was no freckle at the fork of her thumb, no blotch of a birthmark residing on her wrist bone.

No crudely carved letters festering on her left forearm.

The blood began to pound in her ears: its intrusive thrum snapping and spluttering, igniting her body with the flickering glare of panic. Breathing heavily, she blundered across the room to where she could see two doors, her bare feet tangling in clothes that had been strewn across the carpet. Her chest started to burn: waspish heat lambent beneath her skin, like a cluster of fireflies bruising and blistering the inside of her ribcage.

Looking at the two wooden doors, Hermione blindly chose to enter the one on the right and found herself stumbling into in an unknown bathroom. She shut the door with as much care as she could muster, locking it soon after, and rested for a minute or two, pressed against the cold wall in the darkened room. She gasped and panted, mouth slack and eyes bugging, feeling like the rabbit that had just outrun the fox. Making an effort to control her breathing – _in through the nose, out through the mouth_ – Hermione groped along the wall, her fingertips finally meeting a switch that with a great stuttering hum, turned on both the extractor fan and the light.

The bulb was sharp, glaring; a bitter florescence that stung at her eyes with audacious autocracy, causing her to blink and squint. Before her, was a mirror in which her bleary eyes could make out an outline of a person. However, even as her vision adjusted, Hermione with a sick stomach and shaking hands, knew that person wasn't one she recognised. The cheap lighting and good night's sleep couldn't make that much of a difference to her features.

Instead of the chestnut swarm and untamable frizz she'd grown used to, she was met with honey blonde waves that bounced over the back of her shoulders. Her pale brown eyes, ones that she'd always quite liked, were no longer, in their place a startling blue that just looked wrong with her expression. She was taller than she used to be, by several inches, and her slender, boyish frame was larger, curvier too. Hermione fumbled with the cold-water tap, struggling with the stiff metal handle until finally it turned, and liquid came gushing out.

She splashed water to her face, droplets cascading down the straight, sharp nose that hung in the centre, no longer the freckled, turned-up feature that she was used to, before turning the tap off again. If she'd hoped to douse herself with reality, she'd had no such luck.

"What's happened to me?" she whispered, staring at her reflection. The woman who looked back was blank and beautiful, the slight trembling of her limbs aside, with doe-eyes and pouty lips that would be at home on the cover of Witches Weekly.

Still, Hermione's nerves jumped and crawled at the thought of her. She was wearing this woman like the skin of a mink: draped in foreign flesh. She was smothered in her muscle, her fat, her sinew. It wasn't her. She felt disgusting, like a snake who'd shed her skin, pretending to be something she wasn't. This body didn't fit right, she didn't look right.

Hermione heard the tell-tale thud of a door closing; the sound snapping her from her stupor. _The mystery man_, she thought, unlocking the bathroom door and opening it the smallest crack. Peering out into the room, she noticed two things. Firstly, the light was now on, revealing that the walls were indeed navy as she had suspected earlier. Secondly, the bed where her sleeping man once resided, was now empty. She was alone.

The heaviness in her stomach receded slightly as slowly she walked across the room. She recognised that without him there, she had less of a threat to contend with. However, despite her night's sleep, Hermione suddenly felt dog tired, sinking onto the end of the bed in a heap.

"What in Merlin's name is going on?" she sighed, looking down at the carpet, where a set of wide-legged trousers and strapped top were strung carelessly on the floor. From the slight whiff of alcohol, she presumed that they were from the night before – evidently, she, whoever this was, had gone out. Her head dropped to her hands, and the clock tapped solemnly in response.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Staring blankly at the set of clothes, Hermione wondered how she seemed to get herself in these scrapes. She wasn't nearly as reckless as Ron and Harry, but still, here she was. _Neville had it right,_ she thought, with a humourless chuckle. _Why is it always me?_

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed, among the forgotten clothes and smell of booze, a small blue booklet jutting out from underneath the fabric. Reaching down, slowly, she plucked the book from the floor and realised that it was an old British passport.

"Curiouser and curiouser."

She flicked it open, intending to check the owner's identity and give some indication as to where she was. Instead, she found herself staring at a low-quality photograph sporting a face she'd seen in the mirror just moments earlier.

Marlene McKinnon. Born 7th April 1960.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._


End file.
